Demetrius clenched his jaw. That was all they needed. A fucking warlock with godlike powers, set free in their realm to wreak havoc. And now he was working with Atalanta? Holy Hades.
Orpheus looked back at Delia. “Did you know Isis had joined Apophis’s horde?”
“No, I didn’t. But looking back…” She wrung her hands again. “She was acting strangely after you and the Horae went through the portal.”
“Shit,” Orpheus muttered. “How long do we have?”
“Not long. The feast of Hecate is all but upon us. At the full moon’s crest, Apophis and his band of witches will be able to open their own portal and send the princess across undetected. Once she’s there, Atalanta can then open the portal for the rest of them, if she so chooses.”
“We need directions to Thrace Castle,” Gryphon said.
“It’s protected by black magick. You’ll not get close.”
“We’ll get in,” Demetrius growled. “How many man the gates?”
Delia finally looked his way again. “At least fifty. But take heed, Guardian. Those in service to Apophis are not only of our kind. They’ve traded what’s left of their humanity to him in exchange for enhanced powers. And he uses that humanity to strengthen his immortality. Though his followers may look like common witches, they are not.”
She glanced over her shoulder. A witch near the far wall came running. “Selene will take you as far as the outer wall. Her powers can mask you that far, but no farther. From there, it’ll be up to you. We can’t go in with you. Apophis will sense us. But I don’t have to tell you, if he and his minions are set free in the human realm…”
Then Atalanta won’t be the only immortal being roaming the world with a major-ass case of pissed-off.
“Understood.” Orpheus looked toward Gryphon again. “You might want to use that fancy medallion of yours and call your guardians. Three against fifty isn’t gonna cut it.”
Gryphon reached for the Argos medallion that hung around his neck and worked like a GPS between the Argonauts. And as he did, Demetrius pictured Isadora behind the dark castle walls with that thing, doing who the hell knew what right this very minute. His stomach clenched. The female couldn’t stay out of trouble for five fucking minutes. And just like every other time she’d gotten herself in a bind, the Argonauts were being sent in to save her. He was sick to death of playing royal baby-sitter. At what point was he going to be free of her for good?
Never.
As that blackness simmered and churned inside of him, Demetrius made himself a promise. If she wasn’t dead yet, he just might kill her himself.
Chapter 3
Somewhere close, Isadora heard the crash of waves, felt the gentle push and pull of the water. The sounds were relaxing, the tide freeing. And the tingle in her skin was as intoxicating as the strongest wine in all of Argolea.
Something brushed her calf. Sparks of electricity zinged along her nerve endings. She drew in a breath, relaxed as the touch crept up her leg, over her hip to her abdomen. Warmth gathered there, teased her, pushed up to the undersides of her breasts. A thick heaviness pulled on her body, called to her from a place outside herself. Unfulfilled need puckered her nipples. Her blood warmed, beat in her veins, slid lower inch by inch, until she had to press her thighs together to keep from moaning.
You like that, don’t you, Princess?
Excitement leaped in her chest. The voice was male, deep, and sinfully sultry. A hint of darkness hovered along the sexy edges, calling to someplace deep inside her. Her mind struggled to make the connection she knew was on the tip of her memory, but awareness eluded her.
She rolled to her back. Arched. Needed…something more, though she wasn’t sure what. More of his touch. More of those strokes that were making the blood pound in her ears. More of him.
He chuckled low, near her ear. Hot breath fanned the sensitive skin of her neck, sent delicious shivers up and down her spine. Tell me, Princess. Are you wet?
This time she did moan. Because his barely there caress, those erotic words, and that wicked voice all condensed until a fire ignited in the center of her core.
Hands pushed between her legs, spread her thighs. Flames licked at her center even before she felt the first contact.
Open your eyes, little one. Look up at me. It’s time.
Her body blazed with white-hot desire and scorching flames filled with need. Slowly, she peeled her eyelids open and stared up at the blurry image above. Short dark hair framed a rugged face, onyx eyes, and a strong square jaw, with the slightest dent right in the middle of his chin.
Demetrius.
Alarm rang through her head like a bell being tolled, and yet still her body arched toward his, toward his lustful gaze and that decadent promise of ecstasy hovering in his dark eyes. But it was wrong. He was cruel. And she had never wanted and should never want him like this.
Her mind protested as she tried to move. A groan tore from her chest. She rolled onto her side, sucked air, and tried to break his wicked pull even as her body continued to hum with unfulfilled cravings.
Hands grasped her hips, and she cried out as they easily rolled her back. Warmth gathered in her center all over again. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want him. Why wasn’t her body listening?
“Wake up, paidi, it’s time.”
This time the voice wasn’t male and deep and sinfully erotic. This time it was female and clipped. And the hands hovering against her skin were small and cold.
Isadora blinked, shook her head, tried to see through the fog still hanging around her like a shroud. The room came into view. It was circular, made of stone. A chill spread down her spine when the temperature registered. An old iron chandelier hung from the high ceiling, shining light over the stone floor, over her. Over Isis standing at her side, smiling a sinister grin.
Isis. The witch. The scene from earlier raced through Isadora’s mind. She darted a quick look to her left, then her right. This room was not the same one she’d been in before. It looked like a bedroom chamber with high arching windows, a four-poster bed, a chest of drawers, and a large, cold, unused fireplace on the far wall filled with dead embers.
“It’s time, paidi,” Isis repeated. “We must ready you for your journey.”
“Wait—”
Hands gripped Isadora’s arms. She resisted, but they pulled her easily from the bed. The sheet fell to the stone floor, revealing her naked body. Desire still thrummed through Isadora’s body, combined with the chill air to tighten her breasts. Embarrassment washed over her, but the two witches with death grips on her arms barely seemed to notice. They dragged her across the room, lifted her as if she weighed nothing, and dropped her into a steaming bath set near the blackened fireplace.
She wanted to escape, needed to run, but the water was warm, the scent of roses soothing. Her body immediately relaxed and the hands pressing down on her shoulders kept her immobile.
Isis sprinkled some sort of oils into the water. She chanted in Medean, then sent Isadora a smug grin. “Atalanta wants you in peak condition when you cross the portal.”
Atalanta. Those alarm bells rang louder. Isadora didn’t have a clue what the hell Atalanta had planned for her, but whatever it was it couldn’t be good. Atalanta had been pissed at the Argoleans for millennia—ever since she’d been denied the rank of Argonaut herself. Until recently, she’d been living in the Underworld, gathering an army of daemons in her never-ending quest to destroy those who’d shunned her. And now that the Argonauts had stolen from her the one thing she needed in her quest for ultimate control, she was even more pissed than ever before.